


Exercise

by your_token_trophy_wife



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Quidditch, Rimming, Rough Sex, Rugby, Running, Swimming, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_token_trophy_wife/pseuds/your_token_trophy_wife
Summary: Turns out you can improve your form in many different ways.Alternatively: Oliver starts “exercising” with Flint, only it’s not really training, is it?
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 11
Kudos: 97





	Exercise

If anyone had ever told him that he’d be improving his form with Marcus sodding Flint, Oliver would have laughed right in their face. As fate would have it though, he’s been doing it for _weeks_ now. He’s been downright exhausted and immensely sweaty. He’s hung upside-down in the air, been face-down on the pitch, flat on his back in the changing rooms and—

  
  
  


It had all started when Oliver finally made it to first string and became keeper for Puddlemere United. Oliver had not wanted to live in Puddletown (it was a horribly boring town anyway), so he had opted to stay close to his friend and got a flat a little outside London. Apparition was absolutely horrendous, but he got used to the tug and pull, the feeling of his intestines being turned inside-out.

With his Puddlemere pay, he was able to afford a nice two-bedroom flat in a relatively nice neighbourhood, but the neighbourhood hadn’t been his primary reason - that had been the public quidditch pitch, available to anyone twenty-four-seven. _Twenty-four-seven._

Even with practise five days a week, Oliver would still go to the pitch as often as he could. Making it to first string meant he had to keep up his speed and stamina, work on his drills and come up with new plays for himself and the reserve keepers. He did not take the task lightly and threw himself into constantly searching for improvement. There was no security in being first string, after all. One bad performance and he would be back on the reserves, replaced by someone like _McLaggen._

  
  
  


It was a sunny morning in July and Oliver had his gear with him, his kit on, and he stood ready to conquer the local pitch. He absentmindedly stepped out of the changing rooms with his trusted crate under one one arm and the other holding his beloved league standard-issue Firebolt. Oliver was an early riser and he revelled in having the pitch all for himself, not a single soul to distract him from his training.

As he unpacked his gear, he grumbled at the already blazing sun, searing down on him, reddening his pale Scottish skin. Since when had summers been so hot in London? 

He mounted his broom and picked up his self-throwing quaffle - it was a little worn, the leather sort of lumpy in some places and the spell-work was definitely off, as it sometimes would die mid-air and plummet to the ground. Other times it would act as bludger, almost knocking him off his broom. Nevertheless, it was his favourite.

As he threw the quaffle and readied himself for its return, he noticed someone flying around the hoops in the other end of the pitch. Whoever it was, they were a talented flyer, it seemed. The flyer did intercrete loops and hard turns through the hoops and Oliver was _impressed._

So impressed that he forgot about his quaffle.

It hit him in the stomach rather forcefully and for a brief moment, Oliver thought he was falling off his broom at the thrust, though he steadied himself, feeling inexplicably pleased at his balancing skills.

It probably looked worse than it was, because the flyer flew closer, presumably because they were worried about him.

Oliver narrowed his eyes as he focused on the large figure moving closer towards him.

“Are you alri—,” a deep, gruff voice started, but then—

  
  
  


It was Flint. The talented flyer was Flint of all people. 

“What the fuck are _you_ doing here?” Flint exclaimed, grey eyes sharp as he flew a little closer. He looked wary, like he was approaching a dangerous creature and Oliver grumbled out loud.

“Same as you, Flint,” Oliver sighed, staying put, not at all intimidated by the presence in front of him. 

Flint grunted like he was displeased and he shot Oliver a dirty look.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin’s beard, we don’t have to _talk._ ” Oliver snapped, feeling his ears redden.

“‘Suppose that’s it then,” Flint mumbled, “We’ll both train ‘ere.”

Oliver rolled his eyes at that and Flint flew back to his side of the pitch.

(The first three times Oliver runs into Flint at the lockers, he simply _refuses_ to shower in front of the great brute, so he packs his things as quickly as he can and apparates home.)

  
  
  


Sometime, after weeks of bumping into each other, Oliver found himself guarding the battered wooden hoops, ready for any quaffles thrown by his former rival.

Flint was in front of him, trying to get the quaffle past him and Oliver was not going to let him. After weeks of making accidental passes (because their quaffles kept getting mixed up) and making occasional comments on each other’s forms, the inevitable had happened. Flint had said something about Oliver’s tactics being _predictable_ and Oliver had just about lost it and challenged the other man into a simple chaser-keeper drill.

Playing best out of five was what they settled on and it was currently two to two. Oliver wasn’t going to let Flint have this one.

“On your left, Wood!” 

Oliver knew Flint was trying to mess with him, so he flew right, ready to block, when—

The quaffle went through the hoop furthest to the left.

“Oi!,” Flint flew closer, his eyes full of mirth, “Don’t you trust me, Wood?”

Oliver didn’t reply, instead he sort of grumbled, shooting the chaser a spiteful glare.

Flint’s response was a laughter that was deep and not menacing at all.

They both flew down towards the ground, dismounting their brooms and standing within reach of each other, both breathing heavily. Oliver watched as Flint pulled off his t-shirt, grimacing at the amount of sweat on his body. Though Oliver wanted to tear his eyes away, he practically ogled as Flint _dried_ himself with the t-shirt scrunched-up in his hands.

Flint had the body of a beater, which didn’t really make any sense. He had phenomenal pecs and ridiculously defined abdominal muscles; the kind Oliver wanted for himself. There was a light scattering of black hairs everywhere, adding to the sheer ruggedness of the man, and Oliver suddenly felt very inadequate thinking about his own pathetic patch of brown curls. 

Flint’s tanned arms were probably as big as Oliver’s thighs and maybe the rumors about Flint being part troll were true. He was certainly big.

(So, maybe, after that, Oliver starts to shower at the pitch. He keeps a respectful distance - the unspoken locker room rule - of two stalls. When he exits his stall, towel around his waist and his body soft and relaxed from the warm water, he sees Flint already making his way back to the lockers. Flint’s back muscles _ripple_ as he walks and there’s drops of water clinging to his skin and—Oliver feels himself stop in his stride. Best wait till he’s gone, he thinks.)

* * *

  
  


“I think we should do some proper drills, yeah?” Flint had said on a random morning in August. It wasn’t really random though. Oliver knew Flint was at the pitch every morning at 7 o’clock, except Tuesdays and Thursdays and coincidentally, it fit his own schedule perfectly. “You’re a keeper and I’m a chaser. Makes sense.”

“Don't you know anyone better-suited?” Oliver had countered. He wasn’t quite sure why Flint asked - they’d been doing drills already for _weeks._

“Pucey's shite as a keeper,” Flint waved his hand dismissively, “Higgs’s only good if there’s competition involved.”

“What about Wigtown’s keeper?”

“He’s busy,” Flint spat, probably resenting having to spell it out. “If you're busy too—,”

“I'm not busy,” Oliver assured him. Drills were _fun_ and maybe Flint was the perfect opposite to his plays. Maybe Flint’s rough demeanor and rather violent style was just what he needed. Even if he did tend to hold on to Oliver a little _too_ long after a tackle. (Which they weren’t supposed to do, because there was absolutely no tackling in Quidditch, but Flint didn’t seem to think so.)

(After their drills, they’re in the dreadful, communal locker rooms, Oliver’s back pressed to the wooden bench. The door’s locked because they _really_ don’t need anyone to see this. He has one leg over Flint’s shoulder, the other is thrown to the floor for leverage. He’s moaning and there’s a pressure mounting, his legs are shaking. Several "Harder, Flint"s, “Fuck, fuck, fuck”s and a lot of grunting and moaning later, Oliver’s back hurts and there’s two-hundred pounds of solid muscle collapsed on top of him. His body’s incredibly sore and he feels _great._ )

* * *

They had done about fourteen different drills and Oliver was _exhausted._ He plonked himself down on the grass and watched Flint as he stood with both hands on hips in the midday sun. The sun rays came in behind him, creating a halo-like effect and Oliver found himself enthralled by the sight.

It wasn’t until a few moments later that he realised Flint was talking about going for a run.

What an absolute nutter.

“You could come,” Flint mumbled, seeming to have found something very interesting to look at on his bitten-down fingernails. “Get a bit of a workout in.” He shrugged at the last bit, drawing Oliver’s attention to his _very_ broad shoulders. Then, getting ready for his run, Flint stretched, his massive body becoming even larger as he lifted his arms as high as he could reach.

“I thought we just had one,” Oliver replied. He became very aware of how Flint’s stretching had bared his midriff. Flint’s shirt had lifted up, exposing a toned, tanned stomach. It was right there in Oliver’s face, as he sat on the grass. He was completely exhausted from two hours of drills, but Flint’s constant hunger for more made him strangely intrigued. He considered it. Pushing himself. Pushing his limits.

“Well, anyway,” Flint said, still stretching obscenely. “I'll be off in a bit, then.”

Flint’s shorts were mid-length, ending at the middle of his thighs, but Oliver could see the outline of his large quadricep flexing as he stretched. He watched the lines of his calves, lingering over the toned muscle of them.

“Wait,” he said, sitting upright, struggling to get to his feet. “I'll come, I suppose. Just for the exercise. I’ve been looking to build my speed anyway. Running might help.”

(Later, Oliver has his back against a tree in a nearby park and his shorts are around his ankles. Flint’s tongue is making wicked touches against the slit in his cock. Oliver moans and he has to clap a hand over his own mouth at the sound. A "Lovely day, isn't it?" comes from a passing jogger and Flint’s large body is thankfully hidden by the bushes. Sensing a building pressure, his legs shaking, heart pounding, he forces out a "Yes, yesyesyes—quite." It’s followed by a strangled cry as soon as the jogger’s passed.)

* * *

“You’ve tried swimming? Like... Er, muggles do. It’s sort of relaxing.” Oliver had suggested after a particularly difficult training. Flint had been a little upset; it seemed the Wigtown Wanderers’ recent loss had made him give in to his more violent tendencies.

(In the showers, Oliver’s front pressed against the cold tiles, Flint on his knees. Flint’s tongue deep in his arse. Oliver rises up a little on his toes, the backs of his thighs quivering with tension. Flint adds a finger alongside his tongue, slipping the digit farther and pumping it, still sloppily eating Oliver open. Even after Oliver comes, untouched, Flint continues to prod and slurp at his arse, like a man who’s been _starved.)_

  
  
  


“I like rugby. ‘S good for tackling.” Flint stated bluntly and bumped his shoulder with his own. Oliver tried not to think about how it sent a shiver down his spine. He also didn’t think about how tackling was in no way relevant to quidditch as it was highly illegal.

(One moment, he’s in a headlock, Flint’s body heavy on top of him, pressing him into the pitch. Next, he’s pulled onto his knees, his still face buried in the grass. Flint doesn’t take his sweet time. Oliver’s prepared by a cheap spell and then Flint’s massive cock is pushing roughly into him. The fingers around his hips grip him _hard_ and it hurts a little, but it’s _so, so_ good. Flint slaps his arse, leaving angry, red marks and Oliver comes harder than he ever has, after just five slaps.)

  
  
  


Flint had either pulled something or gotten injured, because he was grimacing and gritting his teeth and all they’d done was _stretch._

“Yoga’s supposed to be good for flexibility,” Oliver said matter-of-factly.

(Flint’s flat on his back on the yoga mat, Oliver’s on top of him, riding Flint at a near-frantic pace. Flint’s fingers are so tight they’ll probably leave bruises over Oliver’s hip bones as Oliver slams down onto him. He doesn’t mind. He’ll just tell his teammates he was playing rugby again.)

* * *

They met on the pitch a windy morning in September. Flint had sent him an owl, blatantly bragging about being invited to the try-outs for the national team. Oliver had waited until they met to show him his own invitation, mostly to wipe the smirk of the other man’s face.

“I’m up against Goldstein though. He’s surprisingly good,” Oliver exclaimed and, looking desperately at Flint, he continued, “I probably won’t stand a chance!”

“You’ll be fine,” and that was probably as much encouragement he would get from the other man as he sat next to him on the grass.

“Yeah, but both Goldstein and Jones are much bigger than me,” Oliver countered bitterly, feeling very put out.

“There’s a home gym in the Flint Manor. If you want to build some muscle,” Flint said nonchalantly. “Might help,” he quipped afterwards, shooting Oliver a sideways glance.

“Of course there is.” Oliver sighed, but he was already ready to go.

(In Flint’s childhood bedroom, which is about three times the size of Oliver’s old one, there’s a strong body pushing him up against the wall. Large hands settle on his arse, lifting effortlessly, and perhaps Oliver should be irritated to be lifted. It certainly shouldn’t send a bright surge of arousal through him to be so easily carried. Oliver’s clutching at him, his knees tight at Flint's sides. The rough hands curved around his arse clench and knead. A sizable bulge is pressing against his own, rutting desperately. Flint’s lips are on his neck, his tongue, his teeth. “Did you—take birds—back here?” he pants, not sure why he’s even asking. “One or two” is the reply, muffled into his neck. “Were they—as good—as me?” “Careful, Wood. Sounds like you’re jealous.”)

  
  


* * *

Oliver was supposed to be sleeping. Tomorrow was the final drills before they announced the picks for England. He couldn’t sleep though and he found himself wandering the long hallways of the hotel they’d been set up in. He felt restless, scared even. His fingers tapped against the wall as he walked mindlessly, back and forth, up and down the hallway.

He wasn’t sure why he knocked on Flint’s door either, but there he was.

“You, er, want to go outside for a bit, catch some fresh air?” He asked, still tapping his fingers, now on the frame of Flint’s door.

“It’s almost one o’clock at night, Wood.” Flint looked different when his short hair wasn’t gelled and there was a bit of scruff on his face. He looked sort of mature. _Handsome,_ even.

“Yeah, still.”

(They’re outside on the pitch - not just any pitch, but the pitch of bloody fucking England. It’s a little cold, the late September weather sends chills through his body. Everyone else is in bed, sleeping, getting rest for their last day of try-outs, like good players. There are grass stains on his knees and a hand clenched tightly in his hair. Flint tastes like sweat. A lot of moans sounding like “Yeah, _fuck yeah,”_ come out of Flint’s mouth when Oliver feels his cock nudging at the back of his throat. When Flint comes, Oliver swallows it without a grimace while fisting over his own prick one last time. He comes on the pitch, white pearly drops landing on the bright green grass.)

* * *

Oliver rolled onto his side and looked up at Flint. He sat upright in the bed, shirtless, pecs and phenomenal abs on display, intently focused on a large piece of parchment.

“What are you doing?” Oliver inquired before stifling a yawn with his hand.

“A bit of strategy,” Flint said distractedly, steel eyes sharp on the parchment in his left hand, his other hand twirling a quill thoughtfully. “Want to present it to my manager.”

“Strategy?”

“Plays,” Flint explained. “Positions, who’s better with who. That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Oliver paused. “I like strategy,” he remarked.

Flints patted the empty space next to him on the bed, absentmindedly, still not looking up from his intricate drawings. Oliver hesitated, but ultimately conceded to scoot closer, settling himself beside him.

“Can I make suggestions?” Oliver asked tentatively, wary of his tone. Flint probably wouldn’t like it if he pointed out the flaws in doing a Parkin’s Pincer with the lineup the Wigtown Wanderers had.

“Go on, then,” he said, giving Oliver a hint of a smirk. It wasn’t quite a smile, but there was something there.

“Um, it’s just,” Oliver’s brain sort of short circuited as Flint slipped an arm around him casually. “Parkin’s Pincer is a bit difficult to do when you’ve got Belby with a bad shoulder, so maybe switch it to Formation Looping, but instead of two, do it with three. See?” Oliver took the quill out of Flint’s hand, drawing three lines down the overview of a pitch.

“Huh.”

“You don’t _have to_ use it—” Oliver started, feeling suddenly very unsure of himself. He pressed the quill back into Flint’s hand. Secretly, he rather hoped he would, even if it would help them win against Puddlemere.

“No, ‘s good,” Flint said, eyes still on the parchment as his arm tightened a bit around Oliver.

  
  
  


Getting drowsy in Marcus’ bed, sprawled across Marcus’ chest, wrapped in Marcus’ strong arms. He listens to the sound of the other man’s deep breathing. In, out. In, out. He brushes his lips against the firm chest and, thinking Marcus is asleep, he whispers “I like you.” The heavy arms tightens around him, securing him, and there’s a soft kiss pressed to the top of his head. It’s mumbled and quiet, muffled by his own hair, but Oliver hears it. “I like you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> i had to get this out of my system. 
> 
> and many thanks to the lovely @phantomato for the lovely suggestions and for beta’ing my (mediocre) writing <3


End file.
